


life like a flower, blooming on the battlefield

by deplore



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes, Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates, Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 11:09:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10489554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deplore/pseuds/deplore
Summary: Leo wonders what the measure of death is, if people can come back from it in Zenith.Leo concentrates on carefully peeling off each layer of Ephraim’s clothes, until his upper body is bare and Leo can take in the full picture of bruises and bleeding. He’s not shocked by it -- he’s seen too many injuries, starting at too young of an age -- but the resignation to this routine puts an unpleasant taste in his mouth.“You’re better at this than you seem like you would be,” Ephraim murmurs, eyes half-lidded with fatigue. He looks better now that Leo’s wiped the dried blood off of his face, leaving only his split lip and a bruise right below his right eye where he’d taken the pommel end of a sword, which Leo carefully covers with a medical patch, lightly infused with a mix of herbs to soothe the pain and help speed the recovery. “Have I told you that before? I forget.”Leo doesn't say what he thinks:yes, you’ve told me so many times now.





	

**Author's Note:**

> There are some things about FE:H in-game mechanics that are a bit messed up, when you think about them. Anna has the following in-game quote: “We can revive Heroes who fall during battle as long as you’re with us, Summoner. Still, though this reverses the ravages of the battlefield, they feel pain-just as we do.” So thanks for that mindscrew, Anna.
> 
> Also, being a person who gets my units killed on a regular basis, I noticed pretty quickly that when they die in a battle then they lose any experience they gained, so I wanted to play around with that concept as well. Thus, when I was given an [excuse to suffer](https://curiouscat.me/deplore/post/121456346), I took it _( :,,3 /
> 
> The established Ephraim/Leo part of this fic comes with no premise, but I hope it's enjoyable anyway haha.

“You’re a mess,” Leo tells him, before he frowns and reaches to unlace Ephraim’s upper body armor.

Ephraim smiles tiredly, but rather than reassuring Leo, all he can pay attention to is how Ephraim’s split lower lip is strained by the movement, fresh blood beading where the skin has parted. There’s dried blood caked on his face, over his clothes -- most of it isn’t his own, but it’s still an unpleasant sight. “You saw how the other side fared,” he replies. “I’d say I still got the better treatment, wouldn’t you?”

“You’re thinking in relative terms, but in absolute measurements, an injury is still an injury no matter how much worse you gave back,” Leo says, a little more snippily than he’d intended the words to come out. “Does it please you to come back in such shabby form every time we have to fight?”

Ephraim shrugs off his cape and undoes his belts, letting the protective guards around his hips fall to the floor. The leather flaps underlying the metal are singed in places, and Leo knows without even looking that when the rest of his clothes come off, there will probably be deep purple bruises in diamond patterns across Ephraim’s chest and waist, in the pattern of the chainmail he wears between the cloth layers of his battle outfit -- and all of that on top of the cuts and wounds where armor doesn’t protect his body, hastily and sloppily bandaged while on the field. Leo inhales slowly, forcing himself to move calmly and deliberately, as to not agitate any of the injuries any further. 

“I like to fight,” Ephraim finally replies, sounding a little hapless. “I like to challenge my own capabilities. I don’t think about the consequences once I start fighting. Is that as bad as it sounds?”

“It’s worse,” Leo informs him. “Aren’t you a to-be king? What kind of kingdom wants a prince so reckless?”

“The prince of Renais isn’t reckless,” Ephraim says. “But I’m not fighting for Renais here, am I.”

Leo doesn’t want to, but he understands the distinction between an individual and the role they play that Ephraim is getting at. He sighs sharply and forces himself to drop the subject, instead concentrating on carefully peeling off each layer of Ephraim’s clothes, until his upper body is bare and Leo can take in the full picture of bruises and bleeding. He’s not shocked by it -- he’s seen too many injuries, starting at too young of an age -- but the resignation to this routine puts an unpleasant taste in his mouth. 

“You’re better at this than you seem like you would be,” Ephraim murmurs, eyes half-lidded with fatigue. He looks better now that Leo’s wiped the dried blood off of his face, leaving only his split lip and a bruise right below his right eye where he’d taken the pommel end of a sword, which Leo carefully covers with a medical patch, lightly infused with a mix of herbs to soothe the pain and help speed the recovery. “Have I told you that before? I forget.”

“I don’t take that as a compliment,” Leo replies, voice tight as he restrains himself from adding  _ yes, you’ve told me so many times now _ . “I never wanted to be experienced at something like this.”

“Still,” Ephraim says, sounding like he’s already mostly asleep, “a country wants a caretaker the most, I think.”

Instead of responding, Leo takes off the bandages and redoes them properly after cleaning each wound, so that they line up neatly where before they’d been messily tangled and knotted. Ephraim seems to drift in and out of sleep throughout, so that Leo can’t properly gauge how painful the injuries are -- but he supposes it doesn’t matter, because he’d rather be dressing wounds than not, because at least that means Ephraim hasn’t died.

  
  
  


Then again, it’s probably not death if they can come back from it.

None of them  _ really _ understand how it works, but to most of them, the knowledge that their death in Zenith isn’t the end is reassuring. After their bodies fade into the incorporeality which they came from, they can simply be summoned again and they return fully healthy, as if they had never gone into battle in the first place. The only side effect is mental: most of the time, they won’t remember well what happened right before their death, if at all. 

That disconcerts Leo more than physical injuries. All they know for a fact is that those who die tend to forget what happened shortly before -- but what if there are other memories disappearing, ones that they don’t even know they’ve forgotten unless somebody brings them up? It’s the possibility that there are other, yet unknown side effects that keep the majority of them wary about experiencing death.

Leo isn’t the strongest or the swiftest of fighters. What he prides himself on most is the quality of his mind, and the fact that he can control a tome as complex and demanding as Brynhildr even in the heat of battle, where even the slightest miscalculation could make the ancient tome a danger to the safety of his comrades. The idea of forgetting himself is worse to him than broken bones or sprained muscles, so he avoids death meticulously, slowing the enemy by calling up branches and roots with his tome. Perhaps it’s because magical energy is different in Zenith than at home, but he finds Brynhildr difficult to control at close range, so he fights from a distance exclusively, and has to count on his allies to keep enemies from getting close enough that he’d be left defenseless. 

Ephraim does a good job of doing just that -- perhaps a little too well, if the number of hits he takes every battle is any indication. Sometimes, Leo isn’t sure he has the right to complain.

  
  
  


On the battlefield, there are many ways to die. An arrow could hit any number of vital spots. An axe can cleave through flesh with tremendous force. With careful aim, a sword can be driven straight between plates of armor. Magic can burn like fire and strike like lightning and, in Leo’s opinion, can be an especially cruel way to die. His own tome might be one of the most brutal, he thinks, as it mangles people slowly and unusually, crushing them in the roots of trees or stabbing straight through them with branches. A weapon is at least designed to kill quickly -- a tree is not. 

Given that it’s war, it’s also inevitable that people will die. Those deaths will spur on those who survive, and will be lauded in story and in song for their bravery, their selflessness, the fact that they rose to a cause whole-heartedly. For some reason, people seem to think that caring for something so strongly that they’d die for it is an admirable thing. 

Nevertheless -- death is never glorious in reality. Death is only glorious in the legends passed down by the victors. But reality is messy and complex and visceral and human: it’s the warmth in his skin before  _ he _ (the person) becomes  _ it _ (the corpse), it’s the blood that slowly spreads like how petals unfurl when flowers go into bloom, it’s words on the tip of your tongue that will never find a home in the ears that you needed to hear them, and the fact that it doesn’t get easier to watch even if it happens over and over and over again. Because in Zenith, they only have the pain that comes with death, and not the dignity from the rest it confers. 

  
  
  


There are many ways to die in battle, but there’s one thing that remains constant -- Ephraim always calls for his sister before he dies.

That doesn’t bother Leo in the least. If anything, it’s better that way: he doesn’t want Ephraim to say his name as he lies dying. If it’s already to the point that Leo’s incapable of saving Ephraim’s life, then he at least wants to save his own guilty conscience. 

Leo bandages one last wound on Ephraim’s left arm. For few moments, he watches Ephraim’s chest rise and fall shallowly where he sits, clutching Ephraim’s hand in between his own with the trepidity of somebody trying to cup water in their hands, worried simultaneously about holding on too hard and not holding on hard enough. 

“I’m selfish,” he says aloud.

The fact that he says it at all, he supposes, is the proof that he must actually want it heard. But Ephraim doesn’t stir, so after a few moments, Leo reaches over and shakes his shoulder gently, taking care to keep his touch light as to not accidentally agitate any of his wounds. 

“You should at least sleep in your own room,” Leo tells him when Ephraim opens his eyes, blinking blearily a few times.

“I felt comfortable enough there, I suppose,” Ephraim says, smiling vaguely, as if he isn’t yet awake enough to properly commit to making a meaningful expression. “Thank you, Leo.”

Leo doesn’t want to be thanked, not for this -- and yet he keeps his mouth shut as to not let the sentiment escape him. “You’re welcome,” he replies instead. 

When it comes to both death and reality, after all, there are some things better left unsaid.


End file.
